


mos maiorum

by aronnaxs



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Book Verse, Class Differences, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sexual Tension, it’s just smut ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: Sharpe straightened and saluted him - a reminder of how their roles had ended. No longer was Lawford ‘Bill’, a simple deserter. He adopted a placid expression, but still felt his gut tightening as Sharpe backed to the door.And then stopped.“Unless,” Sharpe said, “there is something else I can do for you, sir?”[[After weeks in each other’s company, Lieutenant Lawford is not ready to say goodbye to Sergeant Sharpe. Post-Sharpe’s Tiger]]
Relationships: William Lawford/Richard Sharpe
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	mos maiorum

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve just started reading the Sharpe series and the amount of sexual tension that Sharpe has with some of his officers is pure bi energy. Bernard Cornwell had the perfect mlm set up with Sharpe and Lawford and that ust drove me crazy. hence, this story happened,,,

“Sharpe, do come in. Please, at ease, it’s alright.”

Perhaps Lawford should not have said ‘please’ to Richard Sharpe, recently made sergeant. He had no obligation to politely entreat him to do anything; he was a British officer, ranks and stations above him - but old habits died hard, and Lawford had never got used to speaking to those below. He stood awkwardly in his new temporary quarters in the wreck of Seringapatam, and knew another reason for his awkwardness - Sharpe had been a major part in his survival here.

Lawford cleared his throat, twisting his hands behind his back. Sharpe waited patiently, having become used to his manner after so many weeks together. “I wished to see you, Sharpe,” he said quickly. “I did not get a chance to properly thank you.”

“Thank me, sir?” Sharpe frowned. “Don’t need to thank me, sir. I did what I was told, sir.”

“Be that as it may, I doubt whether we would have been so successful without your actions and knowledge.”

Sharpe flushed under the compliment. It was not usual - not proper - for an officer to hand out such lavish praise. If one received it, then a whole host of others would expect it too. Surely the men who made up the army saw those above as impassive and cold, untouched by their victories. Blast that, Lawford thought. Sharpe had taught him one or two things about tradition in the last weeks.

“I could not have rescued my uncle without your aid, Sharpe,” he continued. “I certainly could not have held up in the Tippoo’s dungeons on my own, let alone - Well -“ Everything else, he was going to say, but that was a step too far. He shifted his weight and felt the beginnings of a blush. “You were invaluable to the cause, Sharpe, and I am very glad to see you gaining your stripes. I wish you joy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sharpe paused, and Lawford wondered if that was that - weeks of tension and danger ended with this one simple thank you between comrades. Lawford felt distinctly selfish at his disappointment. Certainly it was enough that Seringapatam had fallen? What more could he want?

He was relieved when Sharpe spoke again. “I suppose I should thank you too, sir. No one’s ever bothered to teach me my letters.”

Lawford smiled. “It was my pleasure. I pray that it will bring you some help.”

“It shall, sir. No doubt.”

Lawford flushed with pleasure at the approval. He hoped he had not proved entirely out of his depth during their mission; Sharpe had had every reason to think him a dandy, a man with no true grounding. He could have blustered and lied his way through, but it had become paramount to earn Sharpe’s trust. Sharpe - the rough-hewn, earthy common soldier who was anything but common.

Perhaps they could now part ways with mutual respect.

How he suddenly wished they _would not_ part ways.

“Will that be all, sir?” Sharpe was asking.

“I - yes, Sharpe. I simply wanted to thank you, and - Yes, that will be all, Sergeant.”

Sharpe straightened and saluted him - a reminder of how their roles had ended. No longer was Lawford ‘Bill’, a simple deserter. He adopted a placid expression, but still felt his gut tightening as Sharpe backed to the door.

And then stopped.

“Unless,” Sharpe said, “there is something else I can do for you, sir?”

That blush Lawford had been trying to stop raced to full redness. He swallowed. “You have already done enough, Sergeant. We are no longer obligated to one another.”

“If you are certain, sir.”

“Yes. There is - nothing more.”

The words sounded so hollow. Sharpe’s mouth twitched in a rare smile. “All that time together, sir, and you still can’t lie worth a damn, begging your pardon.”

Lawford blinked, heat prickling. He cursed his fair skin and fair hair in this climate, knowing he must be as red as his jacket. “I don’t know what you mean -“ But he stood stock-still as Sharpe came closer. They were around the same height, yet he felt as though he was gazing up at him, a mere speck for Sharpe to sweep aside. He tried to remember how to breathe. “Sergeant, this is most improper behaviour. We are not play-acting anymore.”

“Are we not, sir? Then tell me what it is you want.”

“What I want?” Lawford muttered dumbly, as if it was never something he had thought of. A man such as he did not have the luxury of wanting anything.

Sharpe smelled of sweat, gun oil, metal. Every bitter scent bled into his own - powder, perfume, faint traces of soap. Lawford realised his mouth was hanging open, and he could taste it all on his tongue.

“I know what it is you need, sir,” Sharpe said lowly.

“Sharpe -“ It was a plaintive whisper, and then his back was hitting the wall. His breath rushed out in a high gasp, like a woman being touched for the first time. Half in shock, he felt Sharpe’s body crowding him against the masonry. Hands grasped the fabric of his coat, aligning hip to hip, barely a hair’s breadth between them. The surge to flee or fight raced in Lawford, but he merely surrendered into it with his fists wound in Sharpe’s jacket.

“Know what you need, sir,” Sharpe hissed again; this time, the words dripped down Lawford’s throat, which he had somehow exposed to Sharpe. “Can feel it streaming off you.”

Lawford made a noise something like Sharpe’s name. But he could hardly deny it now, with his head tipped against the wall, as red as beet, prick aching in his breeches. Sharpe shifted, and got a thigh hitched between his legs. “Oh god help me,” Lawford whined.

“Want a bit of roughing up, hm, sir? Why didn’t you just say?”

Lawford thought of when it had been almost torture not to - laying next to Sharpe on their long journey; cooped up in a tiny prison cell, almost atop one another; the many times Sharpe had taken advantage of their diminished stations and ordered him into position, or even manhandled him. They were entangled now, and Lawford was in _agony_ , a sweet agony which spiked as Sharpe moved his thigh against him, rutting slowly so he could feel every press and pull of his breeches’ fabric.

He froze, muscles coiled. Sharpe breathed hotly against his neck, lips mere inches away, and he might have been talking to him but Lawford could only feel his knees shaking, his pulse throbbing in his chest and at the crux of his legs. “Oh, _please_ , Sharpe,” he sighed, and knew he should not be pleading with him, a mere sergeant (a mere sergeant who had him trembling in the palm of his hand).

“C’mon, sir, I’ll give it you. Got to show my thanks somehow.”

How did they get to the bedroom? They were suddenly there, bunched together, and Sharpe’s hands were dragging paths of fire over him - his back, his chest, his arms, anywhere he could reach. Jackets came off and then it was only linen between Sharpe’s palm and his skin. Lawford grabbed him by the shoulders and crushed his lips to his desperately. Kissing was meant only for a man and wife, but Lawford did not care as Sharpe plundered him, open-mouthed, filthy, all heat and no sensibility.

His back hit the bed with Sharpe’s lips still upon him. He spread his legs, longing for it, _anything_. His whole body was ablaze. He must be going mad with fever - perhaps he was still in the dungeons and this was all a delirium - because he was squirming and oh Christ, he was _begging_ for what he wasn’t sure, but Sharpe was promising it.

He was tossed to his front on wildly shaking limbs. Those hands now reached everywhere, caressing and fondling as Sharpe kissed his neck, up to his ear, rolling the lobe between his teeth. Lawford moaned into the pillow, sure he was going to swoon. Sharpe was remorseless, forcing his knees apart and reaching between his legs to grind the heel of his palm into his lap. Lawford grabbed his wrist - a half-hearted attempt at control - but his arousal was plain as day. Head to foot, he was on fire, blushing like a bride.

Sharpe shook off his grip and deftly opened his buttons. “Sharpe -“ Lawford heard himself slur, and then the sergeant’s hand was down his trousers. Heat leeched through his drawers; the combination of warm flesh and linen against his aching prick forced him to press his face into the sheets to try and stifle his cries. Sharpe found his width, twisting his grip and rubbing until Lawford had soaked the fabric through.

“Hush now, sir,” Sharpe said boldly at his plaintive little sobs. He peeled his clothes out of the way, and then it was hot skin against hot skin. Lawford arched at the sensation of Sharpe’s fist about him. He stripped him base to tip, letting him feel every little callous and scar - and it was wrong, it had to be - but Lawford panted and trembled like a bitch in heat, mouth hanging open. He couldn’t help jerking his hips into Sharpe’s grip, and with every thrust, he ground back against Sharpe, heavy and hard against his backside.

Overwhelmed with forbidden thoughts, Lawford sank down, letting Sharpe support his hips. The sound of his debauchment was obscene. Lawford screwed shut his eyes in embarrassment and exquisitely fervent arousal. Sharpe kept finding every lighting-sharp point of pleasure, enough that he was soaking his hand and murmuring rotten, stupid pleas. His thighs would not stop shaking, his heart out of his chest, every breath a hitching gasp.

It had been too long since he had been touched like this - so, when he felt the coils began to grow in his stomach, he was powerless to stop it. He snatched at Sharpe’s arm in a death-grip, arching his head back into his shoulder, and felt the hot press of him, leant over his body, prick grinding against his backside in a simulacrum of what Lawford craved. He kept pulling him, kept tormenting the throbbing head of his shaft, even as Lawford felt his climax approaching in a flurry of high-pitched cries. He came in hot pulses, seeming to go on _forever_ until his vision was blurry and his mind was made of clouds.

Sharpe flipped him to his back, and he would have let him do anything; was too dumb with pleasure to do more than shake his head at Sharpe’s “sorry, sir” before he folded his legs about his hips. Lawford crossed his ankles behind Sharpe’s back, and let him rut against him - a small concession for all he had done. Sharpe came in seconds, striping up his stomach, and Lawford’s prick made a valiant attempt to twitch back to life at the brazen treatment.

“Sorry, sir,” Sharpe said again as he caught his breath. “Always wondered what it’d be like to have an officer on his back.”

“I hope I was satisfactory.”

“You’re an lieutenant, sir, your lot never worry about that.”

In the fog of his crisis, Lawford found he didn’t care about such constrictions of tradition and hierarchy. He leant back and, as Sharpe rose from the bed, turned onto his side to face him. “We have shared worse places to sleep, Sharpe,” he said lazily. “You are welcome to stay.”

Sharpe huffed. “Wouldn’t be proper, that, sir. As charitable as the offer is.”

“Very well,” Lawford breathed, hoping he hid his disappointment; truly, he did not know what to say, or how to behave. It was hard to feel much else but fatigue and bliss as he lay there, watching Sharpe compose himself again. The sergeant had performed well - perhaps he thought it another part of his duty. But Lawford had felt his need too, had not only had his hand but his mouth also, kissing him, whispering what he wanted to hear. Was it selfish to dare to hope for more?

Sharpe had the audacity to salute him as he left. It was preposterous. The first sparks of shame ignited inside of Lawford - he knew he would be inflamed by them the next morning. Truly had he learned nothing from the weeks spent with Sharpe? He had suffered with that too - he knew his place, and Sharpe knew his.

But he lay there and allowed himself a small freedom. A small flutter of selfish hope.

It remained as he drifted to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> (I did intend to write a proper story where Lawford and Sharpe learn to appreciate each other and overcome their differences. it dissolved into Sharpe railing Lawford 👀👀👀. may have a sequel upcoming....)


End file.
